


I Am Here Now (Because of You)

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: F/M, Magic, Pre-Relationship, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: There was a question lurking in Arthur's words; but she would not make it that easy for him.





	I Am Here Now (Because of You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alamorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/gifts).



> Set during and immediately after the movie. Borrows some details from the wider legendarium, remixed to fit the movieverse take on things... and perhaps explain it a little. :)

"It is time."

The voice at the mage's back was as worn and gnarled as the hand the speaker rested on her shoulder as they gazed out at the faint glow of dawn breaking over the edge of the world. She sighed, then nodded in assent, drawing her cloak tighter about her shoulders against the early morning chill. 

"Yes. The call echoes through his dreams, even though he has not yet taken it up."

"Then you know what you must do."

The hill upon which they stood had been a fort in the old days, before the Romans had come with their roads and their legions and tamed every tribe they could reach into _civitates_. It had fallen into ruin over the long years since, but the mages had not forgotten it, especially now that they needed every shelter they could find from the sharp blades of Vortigern and his Blacklegs. From atop the old earthen ramparts, the mage could just see the glimmer of the rising sun limning the waters of the Tamesis as it wended its way from Camelot down to Londinium: waters that had once swept a born king to safety, and would soon carry him back toward his destiny.

"I do," she replied, solemnly.

Uther's surviving knights had been looking for the lost prince since the moment the Sword had been revealed, and with it his survival; every other rumour on the wind spoke of branding barges hit by skirmishers and rebel graffiti evoking his return. Sir Bedivere and his men would not find him before his uncle did. But their movement would make rescuing him from Vortigern's grasp much easier to achieve ... and give her the chance to test his character before _all_ their lives would be placed in his hands.

The Merlin sighed, then lowered his hand and stepped forward to stand at her side. He looked frailer than she had ever seen him before, a thin grey shape in a tattered cloak eroded by the pale starkness of the early light, but that did not lessen the intensity of his gaze as he turned to her. "So did I, once. Do not forget that while dreams reveal truths, they can also deceive; and that prophecies are often self-fulfilling. Concern yourself first with the man, not his destiny, and perhaps you will do better than I ever could."

In all the years she had spent learning from him, he had spoken but a handful of times of the prophecy he had been given as a young man. A leader among the successors of the Romans would take counsel from a mage and bring about decades of splendour ... only to be brought down by betrayal and the son of a king, leading to a dwindling into the dark for both their peoples. He'd made the choice to change that fate rather than shepherd its unfolding, and gave advice to their own king that led to an early alliance with man of noble Roman blood called Ambrosius Aurelianus. The tyrant that Ambrosius should have succeeded as a much older man had been dethroned before inheriting his crown; the son who would have begot his own heir in betrayal had instead married for love; and an unanticipated second son had been sent to learn among the mages, an exchange of peace meant to usher in a better future.

But balance was a law that could not be transgressed, and averting the fall of the leader he had foreseen had instead shifted that mantle to another. Vortigern had shared counsel with a mage as well ... and together they had started a war that had nearly exterminated her people. Merlin had spent most of his strength in the forging of Excalibur, ending Mordred's ambition but leaving little for the defence of his own kind. And Vortigern had built _his_ splendour on the bones of all who would oppose him.

The only part of the prophecy that had not yet come to pass, however twisted out of its original shape, was the arrival of the born king – and that time, it seemed, was finally at hand. Would the lost prince fulfil all their hopes, lifting the fates of both peoples back towards the light? Or would he turn his back and step into Vortigern's blood-stained boots? Only time would tell, and she was the one being given the responsibility of seeing it through.

"You are sure I am the one who should go?" she asked one last time, meeting her mentor's gaze. She was not this Merlin's only student, only his last, and he had watched her with a chary eye since the day of their first meeting. "I am young, and a woman; not the guide they will expect."

"In another life, he might have been my responsibility," Merlin shook his head, one corner of his mouth curled bitterly upward. "That Arthur might have sought the approval and guidance of a father figure. But he might also have been a teenage boy raised in a seat of privilege, rather than a grown man, shall we say, educated in the art of negotiation. This Arthur will respect you far before he would trust any other messenger. And for better or for worse ... you are the one who possesses the power of dreams."

The one who would succeed him. She had wondered more than once if she had featured in _his_ far-sighted dreams, but had never quite wanted to know the answer. "Will you be here when I return?"

"You already know the answer to that." He shook his head solemnly in reply. "Whether or not you succeed, my time has passed; I am not the one to now stand in your way."

As always, there seemed more to his answer than the mere words; as always, he did not fully explain. She snorted, then nodded resigned acceptance. "One way or another," she promised, "I will see Vortigern's tower fall; so much I swear."

He studied her a moment longer, then inclined his head in respect. "Merlin."

A shiver ran through her at the acknowledgment: the first time she had earned that title from his lips. She had wanted it for so long – yet now that she had it, the weight of the responsibility stole the triumph from the moment. "Merlin," she replied through a throat gone dry, and watched as he turned to retreat back down into the ruined hillfort, leaning heavily on his staff.

She stayed until he disappeared from view. Then she turned resolutely back to the view from the ramparts, sending her mind winging outward in search of hawk, horse, or hound. She had a long way to go, not much time in which to get there, and a knight turned bowyer and rebel leader to convince at the end of the journey. Sir Bedivere had been sent a warning, but it would be his choice whether to receive her.

They would all face critical choices soon. She could only hope that those she made would be the right ones.

* * *

The next few months were frustrating and rewarding in equal measure: nothing like she expected, not quite what she had hoped for, yet surpassing all predictions all the same. Arthur watched her with intent eyes and a furrowed brow from their first meeting, challenging and infuriating her by turns ... and yet, once he'd tested her measure, seemed strangely content to put his life into her hands at every subsequent opportunity. She sent him into the Darklands to suffer; Arthur returned with compassion in his gaze and a question about the fate of her people. She was distracted enough to get caught by a Blackleg with a knife to her throat, and he wakened the Sword fully for the first time in part to save her. He asked her for a way to walk in the front door of his uncle's castle without immediately offering his neck to Vortigern's blade – and surrendered it to her instead without hesitation.

She had expected to be his guide, to affect _him_ ; she had not expected him to affect _her_ just as deeply. To feel the caring in his touch when he bound up the wound in her shoulder and grieve with him over the loss of his friends. To believe in him, not just support him; to feel her heart in her throat when the flame lit at the top of Vortigern's tower, and sink to the ground in relief when the spark of his existence stayed lit in her mind while the tower collapsed all around it. All things considered ... she was grateful to find an excuse to avoid the coronation, to ostensibly reduce the chance that Vortigern's loyal barons might claim mage trickery as an excuse for further rebellion.

But she did send a hawk. And when that hawk met Arthur's gaze....

She sighed to herself, then shook her head, sent a message to her people, and made her way back toward Camelot. They were beyond the map of the previous Merlin's prophecies now; why not see for herself what would unfold? If it further benefited the mages, so much the better.

The only balance she would risk by doing so was her own.

* * *

The paving stones had been scrubbed clean since the last time she had visited the castle; someone on Arthur's staff clearly knew the value of appearances. She had seen through her hawk's eyes how many had come to support him at the coronation and heard the cheers that had echoed up to the ramparts from the throng; triumph and image had gone a long way toward endearing him to the people. He would have to back that image with substance soon, but she had no doubt he would somehow manage.

She followed a young man she recognized from the bathhouse in Londinium into the castle, and found Arthur seated at his gaudy new Table in the middle of an argument. Sir Bedivere's brow was furrowed, and he sliced the air with urgent gestures; Arthur shook his head adamantly in return, stabbing a finger at the surface in front of him. She took in the new signet ring on his finger, the crown discarded on the table's piecework surface – a circlet of beaten gold, not Vortigern's sharpened silver – and the combination of fine fabrics in simple styles he wore, and smiled. King now, but in his own mould as much as everything else he'd done since she'd met him.

Her escort ran to his side, setting a familiar hand on his shoulder to catch his attention; Arthur tipped his head to listen, then looked up at her with a dawning brightness in his eyes that she found impossible to look away from.

"Mage," he said, grinning as he stood.

"My king," she replied, gathering cloak and skirt in her hands to sketch a shallow curtsey. She was no courtier, and never would be, but it seemed an appropriate moment for a gesture of respect in this first official meeting between them in their new roles. 

"None of that out of you, now," he replied, grinning more widely as he crossed the room to her, sending the guard away and abandoning a bemused-looking Bedivere in his wake. "It's still Arthur to you, and always will be. I saw your bird at the coronation; I wasn't sure you'd follow it here so soon."

There was a question lurking in the words; but she would not make it that easy, however much it echoed her own desires. She answered the spoken words instead, gesturing toward the Table. "I had things to do; as I see you have as well." Several painted roundels were set into the surface near its centre, most of them bearing arms she recognised, but there were a few that had no precedent among the nobility. The red lantern, for example; and the hawk bearing a sword in its claws. "You have chosen your Council."

"Yeah?" He didn't ask whether she'd recognised the implied offer; the answer itself had already been implied by her return. "What do you think?"

"I think you have given your kingdom something to think about," she replied, mouth curving in amusement.

"They were always going to give me trouble, no matter who I chose," he acknowledged, shrugging unapologetically. "Better they get used to it from the start, than try to appease them all now and run into trouble later on when they start trying to dictate ... other things."

Arthur glanced back over his shoulder at the last two words; they had something to do with his argument with Bedivere, then. Dealing with Vortigern's remaining loyalists perhaps, or designating a successor, or choosing a bride; he would not fight Bedivere's advice so stridently if it were an external matter. 

"The barons were once kings in their own right, before Vortigern," she reminded him. "They have none of them forgotten what they were once due. But you did include Maggie, and two of your own father's advisors, so you are not discarding _all_ traditions. If they feel their concerns listened to, they will test you before causing trouble."

"Small blessings," he replied, then narrowed his eyes, studying her with a familiar intensity. "Speaking from experience, are we? I might not know my birds, but I have eyes, and I can ask, you know."

The Merlin; he had guessed then, despite her silence on the matter of her name. But perhaps that was for the best; with his birthright reclaimed, it would help to even the ground between them. And it pleased her, that he should have put that much thought into it, a sign that she had not been wrong to come. "My succession was less fraught than yours. But I do have a people to answer to, yes. Who are still very much a part of this world, however diminished."

"So what do I call you, then? Merlin, or is it Mage still?" He closed the distance between them another step, bringing them well within arm's reach of one another; she could feel the warmth of his being like a bonfire in front of her, shot through by the cool lightning flash of Excalibur's energy.

No one left among the mages still called her by name; none ever would again, now that she had taken the Merlin's mantle. But he lay outside the rules in this, and it was hers to offer. "Nimue," she corrected him.

"Nimue," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. "A pleasure to meet you, Nimue." 

Impulsively, he reached for her hand; imperiously, she offered it to him, and bit her lip as he bent over it, pressing his lips to her wind-chapped skin. Behind him, Bedivere sighed, casting his eyes up to the ceiling; she would definitely have to have another private conversation with him later. But for now....

"I am pleased to be back as well. But I did not come for that, you know. I also saw your audience with the Vikings."

"I wondered," he nodded, the smile falling away into another calculating expression as he let go of her hand. "And you're right, we'll probably need any help you can give when Greybeard's message gets back to his king. I might've got him to back down in person, but there's friends, and then there's _friends_ , and I'm pretty sure I know which one he is. That's a few months down the road though, I think. I was actually hoping you could help me with a couple of other things first."

She raised her eyebrows at him, surprised by the forthrightness. "What sort of things?"

But he did not attempt to reclaim her hand, or anything of the like; his brow furrowed and he gestured her toward the table, setting his off hand on the hilt of the Sword in its sheath hung at his waist. The runes visible through the sheath's open front glimmered briefly, then faded again, tugging like an ethereal hook against her perceptions. "There's something ... unnatural ... beneath where the Tower was, for one. It makes me want to choke every time I go out there to help clear the rubble; I'm definitely going to need your help to cleanse it. But whatever it is, it's been there for some time, and I feel little urgency about it. The other thing...." He frowned, fumbling for the words. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but your people, the mages – they were among the original tribes in England, before even the Britons came."

Nimue took the seat marked with the sign of the hawk, curiosity sharpened by the question. "We were sometimes called the People of the Hills," she admitted. "But as our magic grew to define us to them, so did the name chosen for ourselves, particularly once the Romans arrived."

"And the Sword; you told me it was your king's staff. Before Mordred took it, and Merlin – the Merlin before you – stole it back from him."

She nodded slowly, beginning to see where Arthur was going with the question. Excalibur had shown him something; once he had fully connected to it, it had become far more in his hands than it had ever been in his father's. It had made her wonder what it would have done for Vortigern, had Uther's brother ever been entrusted to wield it. "It had been changed by Mordred's use of it. Even Merlin could not reclaim the staff, not with the king's death still clinging to it. But he could reshape it, and use its connection to both of them to form a weapon that might defy Mordred's power when no mage alone could."

Arthur blew out a breath, still fingering the hilt of the Sword as he took his own seat. "Then if I keep seeing the Darklands again, whenever I touch it...." he prompted her, expression utterly serious.

She had been too young to truly remember the place of beauty and peace the Darklands had been before it earned its current name, but she had heard the same stories as any child of mage blood. It had once been a haven of healing and refuge, until Mordred had cursed it and slaughtered all who resisted him. What task could linger there yet undone? She did not know, but the answer was clear.

"Then if you truly mean to be king of all England – there is something you must do there first."

"I thought so," Arthur said, nodding, as he threw another look toward Bedivere.

"But we don't have _time_ for another trip to the Darklands," Bedivere sighed, the words aimed at her as much as at his king. "It's not just the day and night you spent there last time for nothing more than trying to reach a tower. It's the weeks of recovery it took before you could lift the Sword again. Even if the Vikings wait that long, the barons who supported Vortigern _will_ find a way to take advantage of any appearance of weakness. Your cousin may have disappeared, and with her any legal means they had to unseat you, but there are rumours out there about hidden bastards ... if they trot out a son while you cannot fight and have yet no heir of your own, things _will_ become difficult."

The king snorted at that. "I told you before, Bedivere; if it comes down to fighting, really fighting, that's what I have _you_ for. There's no way I could learn a lifetime's worth of infantry and calvary tactics in time to fight any sort of pitched battle. Not now, not three months from now, and not three _years_ from now. If I'm lucky, I'll have time to learn before whatever threat comes after the Vikings arrives on our doorstep, but not before. So if I'm not worrying about that – there's other things I ought to focus on fixing, first." He gestured in her direction.

Bedivere's gaze turned to her in speculation, and Arthur's with the same sharp, assured expectation he'd faced her with before riding to face Vortigern. The undertow of emotion, the faith that wanted to rise to meet his, the possessiveness she felt at a man of his strength and presence answering to her commands, caught at her the way they had then – but there was more to him now, as there was more to her, and she struggled to think it through with a cool mind before responding.

"You do realise," she said, deliberately putting the worst possible twist to his words, "that even if every mage still living lined up at your side and called you our king, we could not cast the Vikings back into the sea at your command? We are not a weapon to be used in that way."

Anger lit with a blue flame in his eyes, and she started as she realised he was still drawing upon Excalibur. "Say that again in Council, when the question's inevitably asked, not here between us. Never again. I may not know much yet about being a king, but I know about taking care of a neighbourhood; it means looking after everyone who's a part of it, and being willing to defend them all, not just the ones who give the most profit. You want me to get my house in order, then this is where I need to start."

The passion in the words would have convinced her, even if she had truly doubted; it _had_ seemed to reach Bedivere. "The king is the land, as the land is the king," she agreed.

Bedivere drew a sharp breath at that, then nodded her way. "So the Merlin said to Ambrosius, in my father's time," he said, staring at her. "So he said to Uther, before Mordred's rise. And so I saw for myself during Vortigern's reign. You truly believe this is necessary, Mage?"

" _He_ believes it is. And that is what matters," Nimue replied. She wouldn't remind him, not in front of Arthur, that it had been the nights Arthur doubted himself most or been otherwise unseated from his authority that his people had been the most vulnerable before; the cause and effect was inextricably entangled, as it always was for those of powerful position, and blame would help no one.

Bedivere sighed at her response, then finally nodded and got up from his seat. "I will tell the others, then, to expect a meeting in the morning. But he will not go alone this time."

"No," she agreed. "This time, I will go with him."

Arthur's shoulders had relaxed at her acquiescence, but his brow furrowed up again as he glanced between them. "Wait a minute. Do you mean I never _had_ to go alone?" he asked, surprised.

"Would you have seen what you needed to see if you were relying on someone else to guide the way?" she chided him, softening the comment with a wry smile. "This time, you have something to show _me_ instead."

"And that's my cue, I think," Bedivere shook his head, and headed for the door.

He paused as he passed her, though, expression grim where Arthur could not see it. "A word of caution, though, Mage; I know you like playing with fire, but take care _neither_ of you gets burned."

Arthur rolled his eyes behind Bedivere's back, but he said nothing until Bedivere had finally closed the door behind him, leaving them alone in the room.

"Sometimes I think the old man remembers bouncing me on his knee as a small child, and forgets I haven't had the chance to be that naïve since the night Vortigern took my parents from me," he shrugged, apologetically. "If you haven't any intentions along those lines, don't worry, I won't ask ... at least not as long as you hold my life in your hands."

His eyes lit with laughter this time instead of anger, and she shook her head at him in bemusement. "When I am ready to give chase," she teased, "you will know. But until then ... you truly mean to do this?"

Her hand went out to him again then, almost without thought; he took it again with as little fanfare, rough sword calluses catching against her palm. "I've seen the bracelets scattered at the base of the tower, and the skulls heaped like stones. I _know_ we need your people if any of us are to have a lasting future, and the path to that future runs through the Darklands somehow. The Vikings aren't swarming to our shores just to be greedy; they're a symptom, not a cause, and we won't be ready for what comes next if we're all just looking after our own necks and not each other's. I don't think some of the others really get that; try talking to Goosefat or Rubio about the Blacklegs who've surrendered and want to reoffer their oaths, or to Maggie about the rival barons who pressured her father into sending her to court like an offering to Vortigern.

"I get it. But vengeance won't help us move forward. I think you can see that, though."

The earnestness in his words reminded her of that last conversation with her mentor; of the caution and almost wistful respect when he had sent her off to fix what he saw as his mistake.

"I think enough people have made unilateral choices, doing what they thought was best," she replied, carefully choosing her words. "I think building true unity will be difficult, even impossible; what is built, after all, is always easier to tear down. But I also know there is a reason I returned. And it is not because your goals are set too _low_."

"Well, then," he said, chuckling at her understatement. "Would you care to have dinner with me, Nimue, before we embark on another life-threatening journey in the morning?"

She considered that, contemplating the warm clasp of his hand in hers, and inclined her head with a smile. "I can think of nothing else I would rather do."

* * *

The others grumbled. But in the morning after they broke their fast a small group rode out again, headed for the lake island where the entrance to the Darklands waited. Rubio, still trying to make up for falling behind and betraying his companions to Vortigern's men, led the pack of former rebels and Londinium fighters formed to escort Arthur and Nimue to their destination, striking a balance between making sure they were not attacked on the way and leaving enough leadership behind to keep the kingdom running for the few days they would be gone. Tristan and Bill in particular had strongly objected to being left behind, until Bedivere had had a quiet word with each of them.

The only one not mollified had been young Blue; but even he had been won over when Arthur handed the boy his crown and asked him to keep it warm for him while he was gone. He'd promised, eyes shining, and with that they had gone.

The ride wasn't a long one; they camped that night on the shoreline, then two of the men rowed Arthur and Nimue across and remained with the boat while they strode up to the stone circle. Arthur might have left his crown behind, but he still walked with a king's bearing, face set as if expecting to face Vortigern once more. She still didn't know exactly what he expected to find, but she had nonetheless brought her bag of components, and pointed him toward the centre of the stones so she could begin the spell of crossing.

He shook his head at the gesture, though, and waved to her to join him instead. "Something I figured out when I was in the tower after defeating my uncle. Everyone says you must put both hands on the Sword ... but it turns out, that isn't always true."

"What do you mean?" Nimue furrowed her brow, but let him take her hand again and pull her to his side. The Sword was in some ways like the staff it had been forged from, a channel for the energies of the land; the two-handed grip pulled the energy from the earth and cycled it _through_ the wielder, which is why he'd had such trouble at first. The blockage of his own energy had stopped the Sword's from flowing as well.

"In a place like here or the tower that's already a focus – I don't need to channel the energy. I can just tap into it," he explained, shrugging as he drew the sword with his other hand.

The runes lit up on the blade immediately, burning brightly enough this time for her to easily make out their meaning. His presence leapt against hers, a towering waterspout now as if drawn from the river flowing around the island; it sent her pulse leaping with it, and she caught her breath as he tightened his grip on the pommel.

His eyes lit to match the runes, and the world swept away: lightning cracked in the air between them as they were pulled through to the other side. The half-circle of stones in the Darklands, damaged by Mordred's trespasses long before, suddenly replaced the familiar ones of Avalon, leaving her shaken by both the casual use of power and the echoes of it throbbing through the landscape around them.

 _Take Me Up, Cast Me Away_ : the first sign of his kingship, and the last. The Lady of the Lake had not only sealed the sword to the bloodline, but the bloodline to the sword ... and she had seen in his dreams that it had known Arthur's blood since he had been a small child. What could he truly do with its power? What might she accomplish at his side, if she bound herself to the same oath?

It was difficult to tear her eyes away from him, but she did, attention caught by the sounds of that place, both familiar and unexpectedly disquieting. 

"I have been here before," she said, "to see the damage that was wrought by one man's greed. And to match wits with the greater beasts, as a lesson in attempting to set one's will above another's. You told me once that you did not control the sword; it controlled you, did you not? But then you learned to move with it in harmony. So was it in my training, here. But it was never like ... _this_."

It was always gloomy; clouds always covered the sky, casting the hills and valleys and watercourses in shades of brown and grey. It was always noisy; the wildlife, poisoned by the monstrous energies Mordred had spent so wildly there, grew to truly unusual sizes. But she had never felt so pinioned, as if under the eyes of every being that existed in that place, and every ghost of her people besides.

"Lead the way, then," he said quietly, picking up her mood. "The tower's where it happened, right? I assume you know another way there than the somewhat ... convoluted one I took the first time."

She took a deep breath, then let it out again, limbs trembling slightly as she felt the echoing pressure of the energies around her. "That's where we'll need to finish. But ... I think we need to start _here_." Where the door had once opened from both sides, before Mordred choked off the escape of all who would not follow his will; where it must again, if it was to again be a refuge.

"I'll take your word for it," Arthur said, glancing up at the lowering clouds. "So what now? Need to inject me with more snake venom, perhaps?"

"I thought you didn't _like_ snakes," she teased back lightly as she focused on the broken energies of the earth beneath her.

"Well, when needs must..." he replied, still flexing his hand on the grip of the Sword.

She tested that gesture against the image forming in her mind, then nodded slowly as it fell into place. "No snakes this time; not yet, at least. But it will need blood, I think. Cut your hand on the Sword, then mine."

"Then _what_?" he objected, instantly. "You want me to cut _you_?"

"You are the king, and I am the Merlin," she shrugged. "And this is what must be done. You still trust me?"

"A poor excuse for a partner I'd make if I didn't trust you by _now_ ," he replied very dryly, then winced and lifted his off hand to slide along the blade of Excalibur. A bright line of blood sprang up in its wake; he flexed his hand reflexively, then turned its edge slowly toward her, offering it to her in turn. "You're _sure_?"

"I'm sure," she agreed, sliding her hand exactly where his had touched, then held her hand palm-up as the blood began to well in the shallow gash. 

"Now together," she continued, stepping forward into his space as he had into hers back in the audience room at Camelot. "Hands on the hilt, then down into the centre of the circle."

Arthur caught his breath, then turned the Sword so that the hilt was between them, shifting it between his hands so that the bloody palm soaked into the leather wrapping. His eyes never left hers as she placed her hand just below his; warmth bled between them down onto the sword's tang.

"Together, then?" he confirmed, the words ringing like a promise in the hushed air.

"Together," she agreed. A good beginning; a good foundation to build on.

Hope sparked in her breast, as dazzling as the light limning Excalibur's blade, as she shook off the last dregs of her mentor's warnings. She was not that Merlin, and Arthur was not _his_ king. Their destiny would be their own to forge, come what may.

They moved together as one, stabbing the blade into the earth beneath them. Energy speared upward through the Sword as the ground shifted; the cliff that had fallen away rose again with a great shudder through the earth, restoring the full circle of stone pillars around King and Mage.

Overhead, the clouds began to part, scattering the Dark at last with great shafts of brilliant light.


End file.
